I'm coming to a point in my life where I can  with more clarity
than ever before  see what's come to pass. I can see the places
I've been, but I don't feel them anymore; I've let it go. The worry
and the angst and the uncertainty have begun to subside, replaced by
a sense of acceptance and ease. And it's making me feel old, like
 gasp  a real grown-up.

Today, I respect the experiences I was forced to endure and value
them for the lessons they taught me, which is disgustingly
adult-like, am I wrong? I've begun to accept my place in the world
and I'm quite content with it; no longer do I fight it. Again 
terribly mature. Ho-hum though, might as well get used to it now.

I nod at my younger friends' frustration with understanding. Now, I
say, "I know how you feel," not "I know! I feel the same way," like I
once did. I smile and know they'll get through it. I listen to Amy
Blaschke and smile; I know she'll get through it.

Had I had this beautiful, acoustic nine-song record to listen to all
those dark, lonely nights at my tiny studio apartment where I could
never fall asleep, hardly keep from crying and never, ever understand
why I felt so bad, Blaschke's voice would've been coupled with mine.
Singing along to her soft Karen Carpenter-esque coos could have been
my therapy. Cradled in her songs' minimal, moody ambience, the record
could have unraveled the knot in my stomach and whispered every so
often, "you are not alone."

"I know it's wrong but I want it," she concedes on the downtrodden,
sluggish "You Insist." "I know this place and I haunt it." I remember
what that feels like  you want to kill the feeling but you
can't. You want to force it away, but that only makes you feel worse.
One day, you'll stop for a moment and look at yourself and notice
they're gone; somewhere along the way, you learned to stop analyzing
them to death and managed to set them free.